


And on the seventh day, he rested

by Tereshkova (EarthboundCosmonaut)



Series: Occasional flashes of competence [7]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Does no one have a lie in on a Sunday any more?, Gen, PFI expenses scandal, Sunday tabloid journalism at its finest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-26 10:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13234275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/Tereshkova
Summary: Nicola’s expression switches from unidentified to angry. “You absolute, despicable turd of a human being!” She advances, jabbing her left forefinger at him. “You’re a fucking vampire! You feed off other people's misery because it distracts you from the emptiness of your sad, lonely life!”“Believe me darlin', I’d rather not be wasting my weekend dealing with the wreckage from your car crash of a personal life.”In which everyone wishes they weren't up this early on a Sunday. Rated T for canon-typical language.





	1. A rude awakening

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a departure from this series so far in that it has chapters - and required some actual plotting. Massive thanks to LunaCatriona for some much needed beta-ing when I was starting to get lost in the weeds, and for sharing her surprisingly detailed knowledge of UK prisons ;-) xx

Nicola Murray is not made for politics. It's not only that she is incapable of opening her mouth without vomiting out another verbal cockup. It isn’t that she has a resting glum face that is a gift to any hack or cartoonist with column space to fill. It isn’t that she dresses like the love child of the Queen and Greyson Perry, although she gives him a fucking migraine every time he looks at her. It isn’t even that the woman has so many phobias that she can barely leave the house. All of these things Malcolm can do something about, even if it shortens his life and frays what last tatter of sanity he still possesses.

What makes Nicola Murray unsuited to politics is that deep down, beneath all the flapping and incompetence, she is a nice person. She possesses that most unhelpful of personality traits in a politician - idealism. She went into politics because she cared. She still naively thinks that she can ‘make a difference’, despite being Secretary of State for a Sunday league department with no budget and a staff that is lazy and incompetent even by the extremely low standards set by the civil service. The machinations of party and government pass completely over her head. She gazes at him uncomprehendingly whenever he is forced to spell out to her the latest manner in which she had been royally fucked over, and eventually he’ll see that flicker of hurt dawning in her eyes as comprehension sets in. Just occasionally that gaze breaks the flow of his incredulity and makes him feel sorry for her. And feeling sorry for Nicola Murray makes him feel fucking angry, because the last thing he needs in this job is to feel anything resembling empathy for the collection of halfwits that the Party has the misfortune to call a government.

He is feeling particularly angry today because he received a ‘courtesy call’ at 4 am from the editor of the Mail on Sunday, informing him that they are about to run a 6 page expose on James Murray. James Murray and his fucking bent company's expense account. Which he apparently uses to fund his penchant for cocaine and prostitutes. The twat has been stung by an undercover reporter while on a bender at a private members’ club. They’d recorded him as he boasted about how Albany funds sordid nights out for potential clients to help win contracts - which is press poison given that about 60% of Albany's revenue comes from PFI contracts paid for by the tax payer. Alongside a four page breakdown and a photo montage of Murray popping a champagne cork, snorting a line of coke and fondling a prostitute’s arse, is a page dedicated to speculating on whether Nicola is aware of Albany’s profligacy and her husband's flamboyant infidelity. Illustrated by that fucking photo of Nicola standing in front of Liam Broadbent’s cropped election poster.

Malcolm fires volleys of baroque threats and expletives down the phone, but the damage is done. The edition has already gone to press and is, at this very moment, being distributed to vendors around the country. His Blackberry is beginning to buzz with hacks from rival papers asking for comment. All he can do now is damage control.

He calls Elvis, knowing that he is the only Government driver that can reliably be called on to turn out at this hour on a weekend, and instructs him to be at his door in half an hour with a copy of the Mail on pain of very elaborate and drawn out castration. Then he rings Nicola.

She answers just before her phone goes to voicemail, her voice dazed and groggy.

“Get dressed." He tells her. "I’m on my way to your house and the last thing I need to see is you in yer fuckin' nightie.”

“What the fuck? Malcolm it’s…Jesus, it’s not even five o’clock. It's Sunday!”

“Is that pig faced twat with you?”

“Who?”

“Mr Albany.”

“Oh.” He isn’t sure whether her lack of protest is a reflection on her tiredness or her agreement with his assessment of her husband. “Yes. He _was_ asleep.”

“Get dressed. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't open the door to anyone except me.”

“What’s going on?”

“The end of the world as you fuckin’ know it darlin’.” He clambers into the back of the car and catches sight of the front page of the Mail. For fuck’s sake, they’ve put the randy twat on the cover as well. This is going to be carnage.  “The four horsemen of the apocalypse are headed your way with flaming swords looking for a human sacrifice, so get yer arse out of bed.”

* * *

Nicola answers the door wearing a pair of skinny jeans and the most aggressively turquoise jumper that Malcolm has ever seen. “This had better be fucking good Malcolm. I was up until one AM trying to convince Josh that--”

“No Nicola, it’s very fuckin’ bad. So if you want my help salvaging what little of your career and this government’s reputation can be unearthed from the wreckage and reanimated, you’d better let me in.”

“For God’s sake stop exaggerating,” she mutters, stepping aside to allow him through the door.

Malcolm sets off down the hall, looking for – and finding – the kitchen.

“Malcolm!” Nicola shouts after him as loudly as she dares without waking up the four children sleeping upstairs, the youngest of which she only managed to get to sleep three hours ago. “This is my fucking house! You can’t just waltz in unannounced at five o’clock in the morning on a fucking Sunday. It’s the only bloody day of the week that I _don’t_ have to spend being bollocked by you.”

Wordlessly, Malcolm holds up the main section of the Mail on Sunday. It takes Nicola about twenty seconds to make the connection between a photograph of James Murray and the headline “ _Minister’s husband admits to PFI profligacy during drug fuelled orgy_.”

She snatches it from his hands and spreads the paper on the kitchen table, flipping to the offending pages. Malcolm watches her face turn from tired to incredulous to something dark and unreadable as she scans the six page exclusive. Very slowly she raises her gaze to meet his. Her mouth moves, but no words come out.

“I found out an hour ago.”

Nicola nods mutely. 

“The fuckers didn’t give me enough time to kill the story before it went to press so we’re going to have to do some damage control.”

She waves towards the paper, recovering her voice. “But—but this can’t be true. How can they print this?”

The stupidity angers him. “Not fuckin’ true!? Which bit of it isn’t true, Nic’la?” He jabs one of the photographs. “Is this not yer husband here putting his hand up a lap dancer’s skirt? Or what about this? Is that his twin brother snorting that line of cocaine? Is it someone else in the video on their website – which, by the way, is so fuckin’ obscene that I had to change my fucking browser settings to view it – licking champagne off some teenager’s chest? Has fuckin’ Silvio Berlusconi decided to add a kinky new twist to his bunga bunga parties by pretending to be a bent, public school rugby-playing twat?”

Nicola’s expression switches from unidentified to angry. “You absolute, despicable turd of a human being!” She advances, jabbing her left forefinger at him. “You’re a fucking vampire! You feed off other people's misery because it distracts you from the emptiness of your sad, lonely life!”

“Believe me darlin', I’d rather not be wasting my weekend dealing with the wreckage from your car crash of a personal life.”

The hand that Nicola is pointing at him begins to tremble. She lowers it, clutching her stomach, and her breathing hitches. Malcolm has known her long enough by now to recognise the signs of an impending panic attack.

“That’s no’ going tae help Nic'la.”

“Fuck off! Just fuck off and leave me alone!” She paces, her shoulders hunching forward as she struggles for breath.

“Do yeh really want me to leave you alone with that twat and half the bottom feeders in Fleet Street knocking on your door?”

Nicola clenches her hands in her hair, groaning. “Fuck, this is bad. This is really bad, isn’t it?”

“On the Richter scale of disasters it’s a fuckin’ ten. The only saving grace is that the stupid cunt told his drinking pals that you’re too fuckin’ imbecilic to have a clue what’s going on.”

He'd expected her to have a meltdown at this point - to start crying and wailing - so for a moment Malcolm is dumbfounded when Nicola runs out of the room. He hears her running up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He follows in time to see her dash into her bedroom.

“You absolute fucking bastard!” He reaches the doorway in time to see Nicola leap onto the bed, kneeling next to the prone form of her husband. She hits his shoulder with the flat of her hand. “You pathetic, impotent cunt!”

“Christ Nicky, what the hell?” James struggles into a semi-upright position and Nicola slaps his shoulder again.

“I could fucking kill you!”

"Is this about that vase, because I told you I'd get it fixed."

"No it's not about the sodding vase! It's about you taking cocaine in seedy nightclubs with journalists from the fucking Mail." She hits his shoulder again for emphasis and James, tired of being prodded, grabs Nicola by the wrists and pushes her away. He is so much more powerful than her that he pushes her clean off the bed.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." James insists as she lands on the floor. Malcolm winces at the awkwardness of her landing, but she is seemingly too angry to notice any discomfort.

Demonstrating yet again her remarkable lack of self-preservation instinct, Nicola scrambles to her feet and heads back towards him for round two. Malcolm decides it's time to intervene.

“Nic’la!" he reaches for her arms and holds her back. “Stop. That won’t help.”

“It’ll make me feel better!” she says, trying to twist out of his grasp.

“Would one of you tell me what the _hell_ is going on?” demands James. He glares at them in turn. “What’s _he_ doing here in the middle of the night?”

“He’s trying to clean up the monumental pile of shit you’ve just dumped us in.”

“Wha-?”

They are interrupted by a plaintive cry of “Mummy?”.  All three of them look over to the doorway, where Josh stands framed in the light from the hall. Behind him is a teenage girl – Katie, Malcolm presumes.

“What’s going on Mum?” she asks.

It’s telling, Malcolm thinks, that the children turn to their mother rather than their father for both comfort and answers. He loosens his grip on Nicola’s arms. “Nic’la, you go an’ sort the kids out, yeh? I’ll talk to James.”

Nicola turns to face him, opening her mouth as though to object, and then seems to change her mind. “Okay.” She walks to the bedroom door, holding her hand out to Josh. “It’s all right guys, let’s go up to Katie’s room.” She casts a glance back at Malcolm and James, then ushers the children away.

Malcolm waits until Nicola has shut the door behind her before turning back to James.

“Well?” James demands. “You seem to be making quite a habit of being in  _my_  house with my  _wife_ in the middle of the night.”

Malcolm steps closer to the bed, making full use of the height advantage he has when James is sitting down. “You're in the news, pal. The Mail on Sunday has a six page exclusive on you. More specifically, on how you use your expense account to bribe potential clients with drugs and prostitutes. Because of you, a hack mob is going to descend on this house and fuckin' _terrorise_ your family. They’re going to be looking for pictures of your kids crying because Daddy’s a bent little prick who might have ripped Mummy’s career to fuckin’ shreds. They’ll be sticking their zoom lenses through the hedge looking for close ups of your rotting septum and Nic’la trying to slash her wrists.  And tomorrow, when your kids go to school, their little friends will be telling them about the video on the internet of you licking champagne off a girl’s chest in a night club. A girl who’s practically the same age as your own fuckin’ _daughter_ , for Christ’s sake! So I am here to try and stem the tidal wave of excrement you have just unleashed before we all drown in shit!”

As he’s been speaking, James’ expression has morphed from anger to surprise to horror. It now settles on stony resentment. “It can’t be that bad,” he mumbles.

“Can’t be that bad? Christ there’s even less in your head than there is in Nic’la’s! Soliciting, supplying class A drugs, bribing public officials - they're fuckin' _criminal offences_! By Christmas you might be in Belsmarsh getting taken up the arse by every con with a penchant for rugby playing _toffs_!"

"You're blowing this way out of proportion," James says, getting out of bed and reaching for his dressing gown. Malcolm catches the scent of stale beer as he moves. "It's just a misunderstanding."

"That doesn't matter any more," Malcolm tells him. "It's already been printed! It's too late for you and your lawyer to have a cosy meeting with the editor and set the record straight. Especially given how many fuckin' photos and videos they have."

"How did you let this happen?!" James asks, turning angrily on Malcolm. "Isn't it supposed to be your job to keep things out of the papers?"

Malcolm just stares at him for a moment, actually struck dumb by the nerve of the man. "How did _I_ let this happen? Let me give you a crash course in how _not_ to end up plastered all over the newspapers. Number 1 - don't fuckin' _do anything_ shady! Look at Nic'la - she's so clean you could use her as a whiteboard and the hacks still use her for target practice whenever they're havin' a quiet news day. Number 2 - the _moment_ you think you've fucked up you _tell me_ about it. Yeh don't shove another line of cocaine up yer nose, screw a teenager and then get a taxi home while a journalist emails the photos to his editor. You come to me so that I don't get woken up at four o'clock on a _fuckin'_ Sunday morning to be told your face is goin' to be all over today's front page!"

James stares at him sullenly. "And I suppose you expect me to thank you for galloping over here now to bail me out?"

"I don't give a shit about you," Malcolm tells him with utter sincerity. "As far as I'm concerned yeh can paint yerself in nectar and stand next to an apiary. I'm here to make sure that you don't drag Nic'la and your fuckin' kids down with you. So yeh get dressed, get down to whatever cave you usually go to when yeh want to hide from yer parental responsiblities, and you take a look at the Mail so you can tell me _exactly_ what is and isn't true in that article."

James makes no reply except to glare even more sullenly. "And have a fuckin' shower," Malcolm adds. "Yeh smell like a fuckin' brewery."


	2. Mustering the troops

Having shoved a metaphorical rocket up James’ arse, Malcolm places calls to Frankie, Terri, Glenn and Ollie, mobilising the – in the DoSACers’ case, reluctant – troops to monitor the emerging news coverage, firefight press enquiries and plan a media strategy. By the time he is off the phone, Nicola has herded her children downstairs and is giving them breakfast in the kitchen.

En masse, the Murray clan are a talkative and colourful – not unlike Nicola on a normal day. Ella – the tweenie terror – is stabbing toast with a knife and complaining vehemently. “I don’t see why we have to go to Granny and Grandad all of a sudden. They’re boring and it’s too fucking early to be up." 

“Ella, don’t swear!” Nicola removes another round of toast from the toaster and cuts the slices into triangles. Her hands are shaking.

“Why not? You and Dad swear at each other all the time.”

“Because you’re twelve! And your brother and sister are here!”

“I like going to Granny and Grandad’s,” Tilly says, looking as fresh and demure as the last time Malcolm had seen her. “We can take Harry and Buster for a walk.”

“And we can play flying on the tyre swing!” Josh looks positively enthusiastic. He is wearing a Superman T-shirt and has a red cloak tied around his shoulders.

“Be good for Granny and Grandad,” Nicola warns them, placing the toast on the table and crossing to the fridge. Katie, the girl he had seen earlier, is watching Nicola closely as she flits around the kitchen. Malcolm suspects that between overhearing her parents’ argument and the power of the internet, she has a good idea of what’s actually going on.

“Good morning Murrays,” he says, announcing himself as he steps into the kitchen. Nicola starts and half turns to look at him before resuming pouring out four glasses of orange juice.

“Mr Tucker!” Josh looks excited to see him, which is not a reception that Malcolm receives very often.

“Who are you?” demands Ella, looking less enthusiastic.

“The Director of Communications from Mummy’s work,” Tilly tells her. Her recall is impressive for a nine year old. Malcolm wonders which side of the family her intelligence comes from, as it’s not readily apparent in either of her parents.

“Why are you in our house?” Josh asks. “Is it to do with the Slitheen?”

A conversation with Josh about aliens at the Downing Street party vaguely surfaces in Malcolm’s mind. “Aye. I can’t say too much because it’s top secret. But you lot need to go to your grandparents’ today, just in case there’s trouble here.” It’s probably better to play along with the story than trying to skirt around the truth, he reasons.

“I can help!” insists Josh. “I’ve been doing karate lessons.” He jumps down from his chair and demonstrates several moves.

“Eat your breakfast,” Nicola tells him, handing out glasses of orange juice. She looks pale and drawn.

“You can’t fight a Slitheen,” Tilly tells him. “You’re not strong enough.”

Ella looks disgusted. “There _are_ no stupid Slitheen.”

“That’s what they want you to think,” Josh insists, climbing back into his chair. “They’re inflating the guv'ment.”

“Infiltrating,” Katie corrects, not unkindly.

“Nic’la,” he intervenes. “Ollie, Glenn and Terri are on their way over. Where do you want them to get set up?”

Nicola looks distinctly uncomfortable at the idea of more of her colleagues arriving at her house. Which, given who the colleagues are, is not an unreasonable reaction. “Where’s James?”

“In his study.”

“Use the living room then.”

“Righ’. You come through when you’re ready.”

* * *

He calls Frankie and is reassured that the Caledonian mafia are already mustering in the Communications Department at Number 10. The cavalry arrives more or less at once, just as Nicola is handing the children over to her parents. While the younger children are getting into the car, Katie Murray gives her mother a ferocious hug. “I love you Mum. It’ll all be okay, don’t worry.” Nicola mumbles something into her daughter’s hair and gives her a kiss before ushering her gently outside. 

Malcolm shows the DoSAC lot into the living room. Glenn wearing beige leisurewear straight out of a 1970s department store catalogue, Terri muttering about the fact that she has a legal right not to work on Sunday and they should be extremely grateful that she is not exercising it, and Ollie bringing up the rear, looking like a kid ready to egg on a playground fight. 

Malcolm backs Ollie up against a wall as he enters the house. “One fuckin’ attempt at humour about this and yeh’ll be using your cock as a straw.”

Ollie nods. “Understood.”

Malcolm steps in even closer so that his spit flecks Ollie’s face when he speaks. “And if yer horse shaggin' girlfriend hears so much as a word about what goes on here today I will extract your testicles with a fuckin’ spoon and feed them to her on toast. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, that’s very clear.”

Malcolm is pleased to note the strangled, high pitched tone of the young man’s voice. “Good. Now get in there and make yerself fuckin’ useful.”

Through the open front door he spots a couple of freelance paparazzi that he knows to have a longstanding relationship with the Mirror walking down the street. “Better come inside now,” he tells Nicola, who is standing in the doorway waving to her parents’ receding car. “The vultures are starting to circle.”

* * *

Malcolm dumps the Mail on Sunday on the coffee table and sets his Blackberry onto conference mode so that Frankie can join the conversation. Glenn, Ollie and Terri sit on the sofas, leaning towards the phone so that they can hear and be heard properly over the background buzz of excited Scottish conversation coming down the line. Nicola is curled up in an armchair, her legs folded beneath her and her expression closed.

“Wha’ do we know so far?” he says, kicking off the call.

“The lawyers are lookin’ at it now,” Frankie begins, his voice tinny on the phone’s speakers, “but in terms of the Albany stuff, they don’t think he’s actually done anything illegal. It's shady, and the sleaziest thing since Jimmy Saville, but he probably hasn’t broken the law.”

“Well thank fuck for small mercies!” Malcolm begins to pace. “So we’ve got the two issues then: the Albany angle – splashing money they’ve earnt from Government contracts around on livin’ the high life, and the family angle – cabinet minister’s husband caught taking drugs and shaggin' prostitutes.”

“Strictly speaking, the manner in which Albany chooses to spend its money isn’t for us to comment on,” points out Terri with unexpected clarity of thought. Maybe she could be competent if she actually gave a shit. “We can make some general comments about ensuring that tax payers receive value for money from government contractors, but Albany’s PR department should be fielding any questions about their corporate entertainment policy.”

“Good point, Miss Trunchbull,” Malcolm says. “That’s the line we use for any questions about the expenses.”

“They won’t be happy with that,” Glenn points out. “They’re going to want to insinuate that Nicola knows how Albany operates.”

“Nah, that won’t fly.” shouts Frankie down the phone. “He explicitly says in here that she doesn’t. Page 7, column 2:  _'Nicky thinks the world’s all rainbows and kittens. She hasn’t got a f***ing clue how the big boys do things'_.”

“Straight from the horse’s mouth.” Malcolm points at Nicola. “The Minister is naïve. Which makes her a fuckin’ useless politician, but genuinely clueless about what wankstain and the cumrags were getting’ up to.”

Ollie titters and Malcolm directs a ferocious glare at him. “You writin’ this down?” he demands.

“Yes,” Ollie says, hastily picking up his notebook and scribbling a few lines of text.

“So that’s the Albany angle,” says Frankie, satisfied they’ve got the key messages. “But what about his extracurricular activities? It’s a tabloid hack’s wet dream – sex, drugs, alcohol, fuckin’ public school twat debauchery.”

Malcolm nods in agreement. “They’re goin’ to be looking for details of what he got up to, pictures of the wife and kids cryin’, interviews with anyone who’s ever been in the same nightclub as him. Preferably someone with big tits who’ll do a fuckin’ kiss and tell.”

“Is he into anything kinky?” Frankie asks. “Does he like to wear a gimp suit or get jerked off by dwarves?”

Four pairs of eyes turn to Nicola. She stares at them, open mouthed. After a moment, she regains the power of speech. “I’m not answering that."

Malcolm throws up his hands in frustration. “Nic’la, don’t be so fuckin’ thin skinned. It’s better that we know everythin’ so that some Fleet Street rat gets somethin’ that might or might not be true from a media-whore we can try and stop it bein’ splashed all over tomorrow’s papers. We need to know what we can deny.”

Nicola rises to her feet. “Since when have you given a shit what the truth is, Malcolm? You’ll spin any fucking line that suits you, even if it’s the complete opposite of the line you were spinning five minutes ago. So you lot can speculate over my sex life if you like, but I’m not going to be here while you do it!” She marches towards the living room door.

“Nic’la-”

“Piss off!”

The door slams behind her and he hears the sound of her feet on the stairs. They sit in silence for a moment, until Frankie pipes up from the other end of the line “She gone then, has she?”

“Yep,” confirms Ollie.

“Can you ask her husband what gets him hard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a relatively short chapter, but the next will be more substantial. 
> 
> With my day job hat on, I feel compelled to point out that under the Bribery Act 2010 Albany's use of excessive corporate entertainment to try and win public sector contracts would be illegal. But these were simpler times.


	3. Preparing the plan of attack

They agree a holding strategy – Frankie will put out feelers to see who the press might be trying to interview about James’ nocturnal activities and Malcolm will have a talk with James himself, to find out what other skeletons are waiting to tumble out of the fucker's closet. Meanwhile Terri, Glenn and Ollie will to incoming calls with comments to the effect that any questions about Albany's corporate expenses policy should be directed to their PR office, and that the Minister will not be responding to questions about personal matters. It will furthermore be strongly stated that the government will take a very dim view of any newspapers seeking to capitalise on Mrs Murray's family's distress. Such appeals to the consciences of hacks rarely work, but failing to make them would indicate that the Party wanted to hang the latest subject of tabloid scrutiny out to dry. And the Party cannot afford to hang anyone out to dry in its current state.

Troops briefed, Malcolm goes in search of Nicola. He finds her sitting on the bed in one of the children’s rooms, staring unseeingly at a poster of Harry Potter.

“Yeh alrigh’ Nic’la?”

She turns to him with red rimmed eyes.

“All righ’, stupid question.” He sits on the bed next to her. “We’re sorting it out, yeah?”

“How can you sort this out?” asked Nicola in a voice that threatens to crack. “I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life.”

“You’re not the one who should be feelin’ humiliated.”

“The entire country knows that I’m so inadequate that my husband has to pay for sex, and they’ll all think I’ve been turning a blind eye to Albany trying to bribe clients into giving them contracts. The kids will know! Katie’s already figured it out and Ella won’t be far behind. My fucking _parents_ know! The pity in their eyes today – I wanted to curl up and die.”

“The only pity anyone’s feeling for you is because yer married to him.”

“You know that’s not true Malcolm. Making fun of me is practically a national sport.” She runs a hand through her hair.

Malcolm watches her closely for the first time since he’s arrived. She is a picture of misery – her whole, middle class bubble disintegrating before her eyes.

“You didn’t know, did yeh?”

Nicola shakes her head. “I knew he drinks a lot, and that he likes to chat up pretty young women. The rest of it…it never even crossed my mind.” She slaps the bed in frustration. “I was so _fucking_ stupid! I never saw what was going on right under my nose.”

“You trusted him.”

She laughs mirthlessly. “I know he’s not trustworthy, I just – I just never imagined he’d do anything like this. Maybe deep down I just didn’t want to know what he was doing behind my back.”

“Maybe yeh just credited him with being a half decent human being rather than a bent, lecherous, drug-addled piece of shit.”

“Hm,” she mutters, sinking back into silence.

“Are yeh going to divorce him?” As sincerely as he would rather not continue this conversation, the strategy for dealing with this incident depends on what Nicola plans to do about her marriage.

She answers almost immediately with a shake of her head. “No.”

Malcolm’s surprised to discover that he’s disappointed. Professionally he can spin whatever she decides. But personally – and when did he allow himself to acquire any personal opinions whatsoever about Nicola Murray? – he doesn’t like to think of her staying in such a fucked up relationship. “Why?”

Nicola turns to look at him, searching his expression for some indication of his reason for asking. Eventually she says “We’ve been married for twenty years – we’ve got four kids together. I can’t just…I can’t just end it because I’m upset.”

“Do you not think he’s ended it himself by sleepin’ with other women?”

She looks away, returning her gaze to the Harry Potter poster. “I can’t afford to leave – I couldn’t afford to look after the kids on my own. This is the first job I’ve ever had that’s paid a decent salary.  Before this I worked for a charity and took three and a half years’ of maternity leave – I don’t have any savings. I can’t afford to put them through university – or even pay for proper childcare. James has always been the one with the money. He’ll pay for some high powered lawyer and I’ll get hung out to dry.” The words come out in a breathless, panicky ramble. It’s obviously not the first time she’s thought about it.

“Money’s not enough reason to stay in a shit marriage, Nic’la,” he says in what he hopes is an approximation of a supportive tone. “Besides, the Party would help yeh out with a lawyer if you decided to leave the prick. And no judge is going to decide he’s a fit father - yeh’ll get support for the kids.”

“Hm.”

He sighs. “It’s no’ just about the money, is it? What else is there?”

Nicola hugs herself, lowering her gaze to the floor. She’s silent for so long that he thinks she isn’t going to answer, but then she says in a quiet voice “I still want it to work.” She takes a deep, shaky breath. “We were happy when we were younger. When I was with James I felt so confident – I felt like I could do anything. And then…I started to disappoint him. And he was _right_ \- once I had kids I got even more disorganised, and I didn’t look after my appearance, and I’m always nagging him…” She raises her gaze to the ceiling, blinking back tears. “But I still keep hoping that one day – when the kids are grown up and we’ve got more time – that things might…well, that they might go back to the way they were before.”

“Christ Nic’la,” he rubs a hand down his face, trying to formulate a response. “This is no’ about you. He’s not a cunt because you’ve put on a bit of weight or asked him to put the plates in the dishwasher. It's because he's a selfish, irresponsible wankstain.”

"But he puts up with me," she says, very quietly. "And I'm not sure anyone else will."

Jesus - he'd had no idea quite how deep Nicola's insecurity ran. He grips her gently by the shoulders, turning her to face him. “Listen to me. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re scatty and yeh’ve got as much common sense as a fuckin’ jack in the box, but you’re a good person. You care about people and you love yer kids and—” he breaks off abruptly, censoring his own speech.

“And what?” she asks curiously.

Malcolm hesitates, and then decides he might as well be honest about what he had been going to say. "And yeh’ve got a nice arse.”

Nicola’s blinks in surprise and his insides curl up in embarrassment. Now he’s gone and made things a hundred times worse. But then she laughs.  A too-loud, slightly hysterical, laugh, but it seems genuine.

"A nice arse?"

"Yeah. Nice and…" he gestures vaguely, "…round. Must be the yoga."

She laughs again. "Thanks Malcolm. Good to know I'm getting something right."

"Yeah well, don't let it go to yer head."

They sit in silence for a few moments. Eventually Malcolm tells her, "I'm goin' to get back downstairs and see how they're getting on. You stay up here and have a nap. Or a cry. Or cut up the bastard's ties - whatever you feel like. We can manage without yeh."

"Okay. Thanks."

He gets up to leave, but stops in the doorways and turns back to her. "And Nic'la? The moment you change yer mind about leaving the shit stain you let me know. The Party's lawyers will come down on him so hard and so fast that he'll find himself in Australia."

* * *

Malcolm shuts the bedroom door to give Nicola as much privacy as is possible, given that her home is being besieged by her colleagues and a hack pack has started circling the outside like piranhas. On his way downstairs he intercepts Terri coming upstairs with a cup of tea.

“Hey, where do ye think you’re going?”

“I’m taking this to Nicola.”

“No yer fuckin’ not. She’s got enough on her plate without you making her want to top herself.” He takes the cup of tea out of her hands. “Get back downstairs and do some press relations. Glenn!” he gestures to the advisor, who’s lurking in the doorway to the living room. “You take it. She’s on the top floor.”

Glenn takes the cup of tea and proceeds as ordered with a look of mild terror on his face. Glenn might be as useless as contraception at a lesbian orgy, but he’s the only one of Nicola’s advisors Malcolm trusts to show a glimmer of genuine compassion at a time like this. Even if it will be delivered in the most excruciatingly inept manner imaginable. Terri huffs and scurries back into the living room.

Malcom proceeds to the study and bangs through the door without knocking. James Murray is sprawled in his chair, feet on the desk, watching rugby on his computer. He glances up as Malcolm enters the room.

“What the fuck do you think yer doin'?”

“What does it look like? What else am I meant to be doing while you’ve got me cooped up in here?”

“How about flagellating yerself with a fuckin’ mobile phone charger, yeh useless sack of shit!?”

“I really don’t see how that’s going to—”

James is interrupted by Malcolm storming over to him and kicking his legs off the desk. “Shall I tell you how it might help? It might make your wife, who is upstairs cryin' because your sexual incontinence has been splashed all over the Sunday papers, feel marginally less shit.”

Malcolm plants a hand on each chair arm, leaning forward so that he is practically nose to nose with James. “Cast that coke addled excuse of a brain of yours back to a conversation we had three months ago. The one where I told you exactly what you could expect if I _ever_ had reason to believe that you might have done something to upset the _Minister_.” Malcolm places emphasis on Nicola’s title, highlighting exactly how much more important she is than her worm of a husband.

"Was that the one where you assaulted me? You're lucky I didn't call the police."

“The police?! Do yeh really think they’d care about your fuckin’ nose? After what you’ve done they’ll be clocking overtime to hand your case over to the CPS.”

James straightens up in his chair, gaining an extra six inches in height. “Your bullying might work on Nicky but it won’t work on me. The police won’t give a shit about me booking an escort every now and then, or doing the odd line of coke. Christ, if they prosecuted every time someone did that, half of Parliament would be in jail.”

“Aye maybe, but I’ll tell you who wouldn’t be – Secretary of State Nic’la Murray. Because she’s one of the only decent fuckin’ _human beings_ in a Parliament full of randy cretins. And thanks to you her career’s probably goin’ to go down the toilet anyway!”

James actually has the gall to laugh at this. “Nicky’s not cabinet material. It’s a miracle she’s lasted as long as she has. She’s totally unpredictable - she threw her shoes at me at the Christmas party for Christ’s sake! Nearly took my eye out.”

Malcolm’s lip curls at this snippet of news. _That’s my girl_. “The woman’s a fuckin’ saint. If I was married to you you’re bloated corpse would have been fished out of the Thames years ago. You’re a selfish, irresponsible, drunken sex pest. This is basically a single parent family, and Nic’la _still_ finds time to run the _fuckin’ country_ while you’re out getting sucked off by a Romanian sex worker.”

“You wouldn’t survive five minutes married to her,” James states as dispassionately as though he’s describing the movement in gold prices. “So don’t play the sanctimonious prick with me.”

It’s the blithely dismissive manner in which James talks about his wife that seals his fate, because Christ knows she drives Malcolm half mad most of the time, but even he still has some shred of humanity left.  His voice takes on the dangerously low tone that indicates he’s on the verge of losing all self-control. “Aye, she drives me fuckin’ crazy but I’d rather spend a week locked in a lift with her than another minute in the same room as you. You’re a fuckin’ boil on the micropenis of Piers Morgan!”

Not attuned to Malcolm’s mannerisms, James is totally oblivious to his tenuous hold on self-control. “Why don’t you get out of my study so I can watch the rugby then?”

At this point a red mist descends on Malcolm, the like of which he has never before experienced when sober.  When he looks back on it later, he realises that for twenty minutes he achieved the elusive state known as _flow,_ in which he existed entirely in the moment, operating at the absolute peak of his abilities - a seamless fusion of thought and action. So absorbed was he in the here and now that in hindsight he remembers only a series of disjointed flashbacks.

He remembers tipping James’ chair back so that only his hand around the arsewipe’s neck was stopping him from clattering backwards onto the unforgiving parquet floor. He knows that he expressed his opinion of James in considerable detail, using great deal of violent sexual imagery – the highlight of which was a lengthy extended metaphor which turned upon a detailed understanding of the workings of a church organ.

He knows he set out a number of conditions which James would have to meet if he harboured any hope of retaining access to his family, marital home or financial assets (all of which were significantly higher than the bar he knows Nicola would have set if left to her own devices). He knows he clarified exactly what James was going to say in his _humiliating_ statement to the press later that day, in which he explained why he was the lowest form of scum on Earth and his wife didn’t deserve him. There was some low level violence to emphasise key points. Nothing that would leave a mark or cause any permanent disability.

By the time Malcolm re-enters normal consciousness about twenty minutes later, James is crying, his face red and crumpled. Malcolm gives James’ chair a vicious shove, causing it to topple backwards. He resists the urge to spit on James’ prone form.

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being. If anything like this ever happens again, ye’ll be eating out of a tube for the very short amount of time it takes for me to arrange to have you shipped off to fuckin’ Dignitas. Do you understand?!”

James nods, not even bothering to push himself into a sitting position.

“Good. Now stay here and write yer fuckin’ press statement.  And if I so much as _suspect_ that you’re thinkin’ about rugby I’ll rip yer fuckin’ head off, put a bell in it and give it to a blind football team.”

* * *

When he leaves the study, Ollie, Terri and Glenn are standing in the hall, mouths agape. They seem too stunned to even pretend that they haven’t been eavesdropping.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he demands.

“Nothing,” stutters Ollie. Terri shakes her head in agreement, apparently trying to hide herself behind the lanky twat.

Malcolm points to the living room. “Well get back in there and fuckin’ _do_ something, yeh useless wastes of skin. We’re not here so you can have a relaxing Sunday drinking Nic’la’s lemon zingers and readin’ the colour supplements.”

Glenn hesitates in the hall for a moment after the other two have fled. “Well done Malcolm.”

Malcolm glares at him for a moment, but sees no trace of anything other than sincerity in Glenn’s eyes. He straightens his shirt, which has somehow come partly untucked during his conversation with James. “Yeah well, I’m just doing mae job.”

“I’m sure Nicola will appreciate it.”

“I’m not doing it for Nicola, I’m doing it for my fuckin’ Party.”

Glenn’s expression twitches into what could be interpreted as scepticism.

“Hey, what’s that twitchy eyebrow for? Are you having a stroke, yeh dried out ballsack?”

Glenn holds his hands up. “Nothing. I just thought I was going to sneeze for a moment. Right, better get back to it. I’ve still got a lot of phone calls to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More thanks due to LunaCatriona here for her insightful comments on one of the scenes xx


	4. The first charge

 Frankie and his team have done some digging by the time Malcolm calls to check in with him again.

"We've managed to persuade the real nutcases that it migh' no' be a good idea to give interviews," Frankie tells him.

Malcolm grunts in approval. "And is there anyone that might actually be _useful_ to us?"

Frankie chuckles.

"What?"

"We found one of the escorts from the video. She's been booked by the shister a few times. We might want to use her." There's mirth in Frankie's voice.

"Why?"

Frankie sets out his source’s key talking points. Malcolm finds himself snorting with laughter.

"Do you want me to get an interview set up?" asks Frankie.

"Aye, offer it to the Express. Make sure she doesn't say anythin' that would fuck us over. But I think that bit of information is _definitely_ in the public interest."

“I was hopin’ yeh’d say tha’. But on its own it’s no’ goin’ to be enough to take the heat off Mrs Murray. Have yeh got any diversions up yer sleeve?”

Malcolm smiles. He loves it when a colleague anticipates his next move before he’s even articulated it. It’s an experience that has been fleetingly rare since Jamie stabbed him in the back and Malcolm was forced to terminate his career. And relationship. And tenancy agreement. “I’ve got just the thing. I can’t talk about it over the phone. I’ll head over to Number 10 when I’m finished here. There’s a parliamentary protection officer coming over, but can yeh send Angus and Douggie too, in case any of the hack pack try and stick around?”

He holds the phone away from his ear as a piercing whistle sounds from the other end of the line. “Aye, they’re on their way.” Frankie tells him. “See yeh later boss.”

* * *

Malcolm returns to the living room to find Terri, Glenn and Ollie working their way through the list of phone numbers he’d left them with. While Frankie and the team at Number 10 are doing the pro-active PR, he’s instructed the DoSAC team to call the main press contacts and set the ground rules: Mr Murray will be giving a brief press statement at 2pm, Mrs Murray will not be commenting now or at any point in the future, and any questions about Albany should be directed to the Albany PR department – which is, presumably, currently in meltdown.

“What’s the mood out there?” he asks.

“They’re not keen on how little information we’re giving them,” Glenn tells him. “They’re looking for an angle – any angle – and at the moment all they’ve got to work with is that Nicola’s refusing to speak to them.”

“Are you sure Nicola can’t make a statement?” asks Terri.

“Are you fuckin’ delusional?” he demands. “Have yeh seen the state she’s in? If we put her out there,” he gestures towards the living room window, through which the babble of the thirty journalists on the pavement outside can be heard, “she’s either going to cry or start stammerin’ nonsense. Either way, it’s jus’ going to give them somethin’ else to poke fun at.”

“What makes you think the press will go away after James makes a statement?” asks Ollie.

“Because Angus, Douggie and an SO17 officer are going to be here in about thirty minutes to make sure that they do.”

Ollie looks reluctantly impressed and Terri mildly terrified.

“Aren’t you going to an awful lot of trouble to control this story?” Glenn asks. “You’ve hung more important ministers out to dry over less.”

Malcolm glares at him. It’s easy to forget that for all he’s mild and ineffective, Glenn’s worked in politics a long time and already managed to survive the toppling of one longstanding ally. “The Party’s on the fuckin’ ropes at the moment. If one pin goes over it’ll take all the others with it, so we are goin’ to drown this story like a fuckin’ puppy.”

Terri holds up a finger. “Actually Malcolm, that’s not a terribly good analogy because after fish, dogs are the most commonly kept pets in the UK so it would be a very unpopular move to-” her voice fades out mid-sentence as Malcolm turns his glare onto her.

He allows the silence to hang heavily over the room for a moment so that all three of them can feel his displeasure. They’re interrupted by the sound of Malcolm’s stomach rumbling. He hasn’t eaten since the previous evening and he suddenly realises that he’s _starving_.

“Order us some fuckin’ pizza,” he tells them. “And finish makin’ those phone calls. Rugger Bugger’s goin’ to be givin’ his statement in less than an hour.” With that he leaves in search of the junk food that he suspects is stashed in the dark recesses of the Murrays’ distressed pine pantry.

* * *

He finds Nicola in the kitchen, standing on tiptoe on a chair to try to reach something from the top of a cupboard. The chair wobbles on the textured slate floor, causing Malcolm to wince as Nicola sways unsteadily.

“Get down from there before you end up with a skull fracture,” he tells her, helping her down off the chair. “What are you reaching for?”

“There’s a bottle of whisky at the back of the top shelf.” Nicola stares up at him defiantly, challenging him to stop her drinking spirits at one in the afternoon. Her hair is matted and one side of her face is red. He hopes it’s a sign she’s tried to get some sleep, but knowing her she could just as easily have spent the last hour banging her face against a wall.

“For Christ’s sake, in a kitchen cupboard behind a multipack of crisps? Is there no fuckin’ sanity in this house?” he asks. But he reaches the whisky down for her, glancing at the bottle admiringly. It’s an Ardbeg – a very expensive bottle of 1989 Ardbeg.

“I got it for James as an anniversary present,” Nicola explains. “But I think today might be a good day to open it.”

Malcolm’s torn between the knowledge that it would be a terrible idea to let Nicola get drunk today and satisfaction at the immense displeasure that it will almost certainly cause James to find that someone has been drinking his £1,000 bottle of whisky. He compromises by pouring her a generous measure and then replacing the bottle firmly out of Nicola’s reach. “Tha’s it for you today,” he warns, handing her the glass. “After this it’s lemon zingers and Fruit Shoots.”

“Fine,” she tells him sullenly, taking a long gulp. As she’s had a difficult day, he tries to ignore her sacrilegious approach to a vintage malt. However, he silently vows never to let her near any of his own collection.

“James is making a statement at two o’clock,” Malcolm tells her, helping himself to a packet of crisps and passing another to her.

“I’m not going out there,” Nicola warns him. “I won’t be doing any of that ‘stand by your man’ crap.”

“Too right yer not,” he tells her, ripping open his crisp packet and shoving a handful into his mouth. “I’m tryin’ to kill this story, not make it worse.”

“Oh. Right.  Well good,” she says, nonplussed.

“After he’s said his piece the police and a few of my people will come round to scare off the hacks.”

“Your people?” Nicola scoffs, taking another swig of whisky. “What are you, the mafia?”

He chooses to ignore her disrespectful tone because between his early morning and his conversation with James, he’s feeling a little fatigued. “Once they get here the rest of us will clear off out of yer hair. Do you want me to get Elvis to drop Rugger Bugger off at a hotel?”

He’s surprised that she gives this question serious thought, and even more surprised when she concludes “No, it’s okay.”

“You sure?”

Nicola nods. “We’re going to have to talk at some point. Might as well get it over with sooner rather than later. And it’ll be easier if the kids aren’t here.”

He takes in her exhausted face and her white-fingered grip on her whisky glass. She hardly seems in a good frame of mind to be having any kind of meaningful discussion with James. But then again, what would be a good frame of mind to discuss your husband’s drug abuse and infidelity?

“All righ’, but if you change your mind just tell Angus and Douggie. They’ll take care of him.” If the phrase leaves some ambiguity about whether they will arrange to have James taken to a hotel or beaten up and left in a ditch, it’s not entirely unintentional.

* * *

When Malcolm opens the front door at 2pm the fifty hacks on the pavement descend into a flurry of barging, camera flashes and shouting. He steps out of the front door and shuts it firmly behind him, gesturing that they should stay on the public land of the pavement rather than the private property of the Murrays’ front garden. Angus, Douggie and the SO17 officer that Malcolm had insisted that the Head of Parliamentary Protection dispatch stand sentry on either side of the gate.

The more pushy journalists manage to project their questions over the rest of the scrum:

"Malcolm, what's going on?"

"Is Mrs Murray going to make a statement?"

"Do you have any comment on the articles about James Murray?"

He raises his hands to quiet them. "Here's what's going to happen. Mr Murray will be making a prepared statement. Then you lot will fuckin' piss off. Mrs Murray will _not_ be making a statement and will _not_ be answering any questions. If you've got any questions, you ring the Communications department at Number 10. And any of you hangin' around the house or following her or her kids will be reported to the Police for harassment,” he indicates the SO17 officer for emphasis. “And I will _personally_ make sure that not only is their career in journalism is fuckin' _over_ , but that they end up sleeping in a fuckin’ cardboard _box_ under a fuckin’ bridge."

The pack quiets down. It’s not unknown for Malcolm to change his mind about press conferences at the last minute, and he’s clearly in the kind of mood today where he would do so with the right provocation.

Ground rules laid down, Malcolm opens the front door and James Murray steps out. For all that he is a huge man, he looks unimposing. His hair is rumpled from running his hands through it repeatedly over the course of the day, and his shirt is crumpled. There are creases in it that could have been caused by someone seizing him by the front of his shirt and shaking him, but are far more likely to be due to poor ironing.

James unfolds the statement that he has drafted, Malcolm has ruthlessly re-drafted and the Party lawyers have okayed. His hands shake slightly. “Ahem. You will be aware of the article that has been published today about my conduct during a recent night out. Whilst I will not discuss the veracity of any specific accusations, I deeply regret the scrutiny that has been placed on my family as a result.

“My actions exceeded the scope of Albany Group’s corporate entertainment policy, and I will fully co-operate with any disciplinary action that the company sees fit to bring. However it would not be appropriate for me to comment further on what is an internal matter at this time.

“More importantly, I am deeply remorseful for the pain that this incident has caused my family. I have failed in my role as a husband and father, and I can only hope that they will find it in their hearts to forgive me for my behaviour. My focus at the moment it to earn the trust, loyalty and support that they have unwaveringly shown me over the last twenty years.

“Above all, it is my fervent hope that my actions will not reflect badly on my wife. Nicola is a selfless and good hearted public servant who never fails to act in the best interests of her constituents and the British public. In future, I will endeavour to support her in every way I can to fulfil these duties.”

There is a hitch in his voice as he reads the last few lines that Malcolm suspects is humiliation, but knows will play to the press as agonised regret.

"That's it," Malcolm tells the hack pack after James has declined to answer any questions and fled back into the house. "Go and have a wank in the park, or whatever you lot do on a Sunday. If there's anyone still here in fifteen minutes' time, ye'll be spending the night in a police cell."

* * *

Once the press conference is over, Angus and Douggie clear the street of lurking journalists and photographers. Their approach is more direct than that of the SO17 officer, whose duties allow him only to stand at the Murrays’ gate and warn off anyone attempting to approach or photograph the house.

Glenn, Terri and Ollie are still in the living room, polishing off the last of the Domino’s pizza. Malcolm swipes the last slice of congealed ham and mushroom pizza from Ollie. He’s still starving.

“Don’t you lot have homes to go to?” he demands.

“We were trying to explain that to you about eight hours ago,” grumbles Ollie, scraping the container of garlic sauce out with his finger.

“Aye, well you’ve outlived what minuscule usefulness you had then,” Malcolm tells him, swallowing a mouthful of pizza. “So get back to yer Balham dosshouse and make sure you keep the horse shagger 100 miles from anything to do with James fuckin’ Murray.”

It doesn’t take any more encouragement than this for Ollie, Terri and Glenn to pack up their belongings and depart. As they shuffle out of the door Terri mutters about the fact that as a head of department she doesn’t get paid overtime, but she will be taking time in lieu instead. Ollie and Glenn are employed by the Party and know better than to expect such luxuries. DoSACers dispatched, he goes in search of Nicola to let know that he’s leaving.

As he passes James' study he hears a low mumble of voices behind the half-closed door. He assumes that it's the television. However, after he’s searched the rest of the house and found it empty, he realises that Nicola must be in there with James.

He peers through the half-open door. Nicola stands in the centre of the room. James is kneeling in front of her, his arms around her waist and his face pressed against her stomach. His shoulders are shaking. Malcolm hears the low mumble of his voice, repeating one phrase over and over again like a mantra. “ _I’m so sorry Nicky. I’m so, so sorry.”_ Nicola’s hands are on his hair, smoothing it slowly like she might to comfort one of her children. She has been crying again.

The scene evokes feelings in him that he doesn’t understand - he’s not used to feeling much except anger and weariness. He thinks he ought to be pleased that James is actually apologising, and this is the most affection that he’s ever seen between the two of them. But he’s not happy about it – insofar as he’s ever happy about anything. He’s frustrated and disappointed and something else – could it be anger? Jealousy? The fact of this forgiveness, and that it comes from such a misplaced sense of love on Nicola’s part, upsets him.

She seems to sense Malcolm’s gaze. She glances towards the door.

“I’m going now,” he whispers, reluctant to intrude on such an intimate moment. James doesn’t seem to hear him over his litany of apology.

Nicola nods, her hands never stopping their smoothing of James’ hair.

“I’ll have my phone with me if yeh need anything,” he tells her.

"Okay," she mouths.

He leaves, securing the front door firmly behind him and briefing the SO17 officer not to let anybody into the house except Angus and Douggie.

He calls Elvis to give him a lift to Number 10 and spends the rest of the day working with Frankie to put his diversionary tactics into motion. But Nicola doesn’t call that night. She doesn’t call, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that.


	5. Small victories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this chapter was going to be a short epilogue, but it's turned into a four thousand word monster. More thanks are owed to LunaCatriona for providing feedback and encouragement when I wanted to hurl my laptop through a window.

Malcolm haunts the lobby of DoSAC the following morning, making sure that any journalist who doubted that he was sincere about Mrs Murray not taking any questions about her husband under _any_ circumstances _ever_ is put right. Between himself, SO17 and the Caledonian Mafia the message seems to have got across, as only one vulture - from the News of the World - and a couple of freelance photographers put in an appearance.

He’s clutching a four shot Americano. He and Frankie had been up until two o’clock negotiating with journalists and editors. There didn’t seem much point in going home, so he’d slept in his office for a few hours before going out for copies of the first editions. He hadn’t been able to suppress a smug smile when he saw what the papers were leading with. A smile that only widened when he reached the features section of the Express. Even by his exceptional standards, he has done a good job. He feels a flutter of anticipation at what Nicola will say when she sees it.

Her car drops her off at 8.30. She looks pale and tired, but her expression is one of determined stoicism.

"Good morning Minister," he says, taking her despatch boxes from her and following her up the stairs. "Did yeh have any problems getting here?"

"No. There were a few photographers hanging around the house but Douggie and Angus got rid of them."

“Is Rugger Bugger behavin’ himself?”

“Yes.”

"Did yeh' get some sleep?"

"Not really, no." Her tone doesn’t encourage conversation, and they ascend the rest of the stairs in silence.

Ollie, Glenn and Terri are already at their desks. Ollie studiously avoids looking at Nicola as she walks towards the office, pretending to be totally absorbed in something on his screen. Terri hovers next to her desk, bobbing up and down and squeaking out “Good morning Secretary of State,” as Nicola passes. She looks more relieved than offended when Malcolm uses a rather rude gesture to indicate that her presence is not required at this time.

Glenn is in Nicola’s office, placing a tray of coffee and croissants on her desk. “Good morning, Nicola. I uh, I wasn’t sure whether you would have had breakfast.”

“Thanks Glenn,” she tells him tonelessly, but she gives him a tight smile.

Malcolm places the despatch boxes on the filing cabinet and gestures to the stack of newspapers he had placed prominently on her desk earlier that morning, topped by the Daily Express. “Yeh might want to look those over.”

“I’m certain I don’t,” says Nicola, placing her coat and handbag over them. “If I never see another newspaper in my life it will be too soon.”

She sinks into her chair and tips her head back against the backrest, closing her eyes.

“We’ve rearranged your schedule for the week,” Glenn says, referring to the archaic leather-bound desk planner he still totes around like a mascot. “The Department of Health are sending Ben Swain to take your place at the Healthy Choices walkabout in Camberley and Alice Joy from the Home Office is going to deputise for you at the Immigration Service board meeting on Wednesday. I’ve brought forward some of the policy work from next week instead, and scheduled time with the Accounting Officer for you to go over the departmental impact report.” He looks up from his list. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do about your constituency surgery on Thursday.”

Nicola cracks an eye open. “Leave it. It’ll be the only highlight in a shit week.”

It’s so typical, Malcolm muses, that sitting in a dilapidated shithole of a public library listening to her constituents whinge about bin collections and housing benefit is the part of her job that she actually looks forward to. Most ministers can’t wait to palm off their constituency business to a Party minion the moment they get off the back benches. Although, of course, Nicola had been perfectly happy to spend her career on the back benches until he’d forcibly catapulted her into the Cabinet.

“Right, I’ll give the constituency office a call and confirm,” Glenn says, excusing himself.

“We’re goin’ to keep you out of the public eye this week,” Malcolm tells her, briefing her on the media strategy he’s agreed with Frankie and Terri. “But next week it’s full steam ahead. The press gang are fixin’ you up some soft public appearances – school visits, the Telegraph women’s magazine, that sort of thing.”

“Do I really have to?” groans Nicola, closing her eyes again. “Surely it must be possible to just never go out in public again?”

“It’s not as bad as yeh think,” he insists, helping himself to one of the croissants. “Take a look at the papers and see for yerself.”

“Stop pretending to be reassuring, it’s not very convincing.” She starts as her mobile phone rings, scrambling to retrieve it from her handbag. The caller ID shows _James_. She rejects the call and switches the phone to silent.

“Are you two not talking?” he asks.

She shoots him a look that says _mind your own business_. “I’m not talking to anyone today.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t stay up half the ‘fuckin’ night tryin’ to fix this mess so that you can just bury your head in the fuckin’ sand.”

Nicola glares at him. “Why not? I’m the Secretary of State – this is my Department and I can do as I please.”

It seems pointless to remind her that although she technically outranks him, Tom will back him over Nicola – or indeed any Minister - any day of the week. “Yer being childish. What are you goin’ to do? Hide in yer office all day?”

She crosses her arms, her expression so sullen that it could wilt flowers. “Yes. I’m going to unplug the phone, shut the door and speak to no one except when I want a cup of coffee. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Do I have a problem with you cowering in here like a fuckin’ French soldier that’s just heard the Panzers are on the way? No, if yeh want fuckin’ epitaph to read _Nicola Murray – snivelling coward_ , go ahead.”

"Glenn," Nicola shouts, pointedly ignoring Malcolm. Glenn appears in the doorway like a Bassett hound waiting to have stick thrown for him. "Can you bring me the departmental impact report?" she asks him.

Glenn returns with a thick ringbinder of papers and Nicola says "You can go now, Malcolm," without even looking at him.

He gapes at her incredulously. The last person who had the nerve to dismiss him was his old headmaster. Malcolm had told the shrivelled up relic where to shove his fucking school. It had turned out to be his last day of formal education - a turn of events he in no way regrets. Unlike this conversation.

He’s too exhausted to tolerate this kind of shit from Nicola. Especially after he’s stayed up the whole night trying to dig her out of the almighty hole that her feckless husband had dumped them all in. Where’s the fucking gratitude? “Fine! If that’s what you want, you stay here and sulk like a fifteen year old fuckin’ _emo_. Shall I send Ollie out to get yeh some razor blades so yeh can make a proper job of it?”

“Get out Malcolm! Can’t you stop bullying me for one fucking day!?”

The genuine venom in her voice makes him see red. He plants both hand on her desk, leaning forward so that his face is level with hers. “I’m going to give you a yellow card, because half of fuckin’ Number 10 wasted the weekend saving your saggy middle aged skin and I don’t want the effort to be a complete  waste of fuckin’ time,” he tells her through clenched teeth, physically biting back his anger. “But if you _ever_ use that tone with me again, you’ll be standing in line at the fuckin’ job centre so fast yer hideous fuckin’ dowdy walking trainers won’t touch the floor!”

Nicola, the foolish brain dead cunt, seems totally uncowed by his outburst. “Noted,” she says, ending the conversation by swivelling her chair to face away from him.

If he stays he’ll be tempted to hit her, and he doesn’t hit women. He wishes her office had the kind of door that he could slam behind him as he leaves. 

* * *

Over the course of the morning he feels an inconvenient pang of remorse for losing his temper at Nicola. She had been behaving like a fucking toddler, but he can’t help feeling that maybe his reaction was a little out of proportion. He’s handled far worse more calmly, and even he can recognise that it’s out of character for her to be aggressive.

The remorse keeps surfacing at inconvenient moments, distracting him when he should really be giving his full attention to the task at hand. At lunch the delivery of a second warning to the junior minister for regional administration brings him to the super ministry, so he decides to stop by DoSAC before he leaves.

“Where’s Glummy Mummy?” he asks from the doorway of Nicola’s abandoned office.

 “She said she was going to get some air,” says Ollie without looking up from his desk.

“When?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” ventures Glenn.

“And you lot just let her wander off on her own!?” Malcolm demands.

Terri, Ollie and Glenn exchange guilty looks, conspicuously avoiding making eye contact with him.

“Well?” he pushes.

Ollie’s the one that breaks the silence. “She’s been in a foul mood all morning,” he says plaintively. “We were fuckin’ relieved to get rid of her for a while.”

“She was very rude about my dog earlier,” Terri confirms.

He throws his hands up in the air. “For Christ’s sake! Rugger Bugger’s having fun poked at him by the tabloids and you thought it was sensible to let her wander around Westminster on her own? Any twat with a smartphone could take a photo of her looking fuckin’ miserable and flog it to the press for twenty quid!”

Terri and Ollie refuse to meet his eye. “I don’t think she went outside,” Glenn tells him sheepishly. “She left her coat and handbag behind.”

Malcolm peers into her office again. Nicola’s belongings are indeed where she’d dumped them earlier that morning – on top of the untouched stack of newspapers. He snatches Nicola’s coat and the Express from the heap.

“If anything’s happened, you’ll be cleaning the toilets with yer fuckin’ tongues for the rest of your very short careers!”

* * *

Malcolm reasons that Glenn is right about Nicola not leaving the building – her paranoia would have prevented her from running the risk of being spotted in public. There’s only one other place she could have gone for air in the super ministry.

Sure enough he finds her in the roof garden – a dismal little terrace with a pagoda and a few raised beds of sickly plants that makes a mockery of the name. Even the smokers stay away, preferring to loiter outside the service entrance. She’s leaning against the railings, gazing sightlessly at the street six storeys below as she talks on the phone.

“It sounds like it went about as well as it could have done…I know but there’s really not much you can do once the genie’s out of the bottle, is there?...Yes, Mum’s going to drop them off at eight…She’s giving them dinner…No, I can’t bring myself to look…I don’t want to know what they say – it’s easier to pretend it never happened if I don’t read them…” Nicola looks up, becoming aware of Malcolm’s presence. “Look, I’ve got to go - Malcolm’s here…Yep, I’ll see you later…Bye.”

“That Rugger Bugger?” he asks as she hangs up.

“His name’s James!” she tells him sharply.

“What did _James_ have to say?” he asks in an exaggeratedly calm tone.

“Why do you care?” Ollie was right, she’s still in a terrible mood.

“It’d be useful to know whether Albany are goin’ to hang him out to dry or not.”

She sighs. “Not. Apparently that kind of _client entertainment_ is standard practice when they’re bidding for big contracts. They don’t want that to become public knowledge though, so they’ll make a show of moving him to a different division and doing an investigation, and then in a few months’ time they’ll quietly drop it. Just like a Parliamentary enquiry.”

Malcolm snorts. “Things must be bad if you’re bein’ cynical.”

“I think I’m entitled to be in a bad fucking mood, don’t you?” she demands, glaring at him.

Malcolm holds up his hands. “Easy there Boudica, I didn’t say yeh weren’t. Here,” he hands her the coat he’d taken from her office. “Don’t get cold.”

She shrugs it on, eyeing him suspiciously. “What do you want Malcolm?”

"Are you hiding?"

"Of course not. Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, but not much that goes on in your head actually makes sense, so it doesn't mean yer not."

"I just want some time to myself."

"To do wha'?"

"To not have to answer your fucking questions!" She's begun pacing, her fists clenched tightly at her sides and her shoulders hunched with tension.

"Calm down," he tells her. "I'm not haulin’ yeh down those stairs if yeh have a fuckin' heart attack."

"Don't worry, I'd sooner jump."

Normally Malcolm's enjoys a good suicide joke as much as the next person, but coming from Nicola today it makes him want to edge between her and the railing. He's never seen her in this mood before - he doesn't even know what this mood is. Nothing good, that's for sure.

“Why are yeh hidin’ up here?” 

Nicola doesn’t slow down her restless motion. “Because I’m fed up of people judging me.” 

“No one’s judging you Nic’la. Your staff are scared shitless of you the way you’re actin’ today, but they’re not judging you. 

She says nothing, just treads the uneven paving slabs. 

“Who do yeh think’s judging you?” he tries again. 

Her muttered response is too quiet to be heard over the hum of traffic from the street below. Malcolm steps closer. “What’s that?” 

She looks at him over her shoulder, her expression guarded. “You.” 

It’s the last thing he’s expecting her to say. “Me? Why?”

She refuses to meet his eye. “Because you _always_ judge me! You never stop criticising me - my clothes, my ideas, the things I say. The number of children I have. _James_. You think I’m a joke!” 

“Nic’la,” he reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder but she twists away, going to lean against the railing on the other side of the terrace.

After everything that’s happened over the last few months, can she really think that? He moves to lean against the same section of railing – nearby, but not so close that she’ll feel the need to move away again. “Yer no joke Nic’la. You do stupid things sometimes, but yer no joke. Do yeh really think I’d ask you to take a walk with me when I need to get away from this lunatic asylum if I thought that?” 

She glances at him in surprise. Encouraged, he goes on. “When do you think was the last time I went to the park with Tom? Or Dan Miller? Or Ben fuckin’ _Swain_?” 

“You go to the park because you need to clear your head.” 

“Aye, but if I just wanted a cup of coffee and a stroll I could go on my own, couldn’t I?” 

She looks at him properly this time, with that strange, intense gaze of hers. “But what about James? You hate him – you don’t even try to hide it.” 

“Of course I fuckin’ hate him. He’s a selfish prick whose main hobbies are linin’ his nostrils with fuckin’ cocaine and goin’ out of his way to hurt you.” 

“And you think I’m stupid for wanting to stay with him,” she challenges him. 

He shakes his head. “No. I think a _normal_ person would have given him his marchin’ orders years ago. But you wouldn’t be you if yeh didn’t want to see the best in people. Even when they _do_ fuck you over.” 

She rests her head in her hands, gazing down at the street below, and the insecurity that he’d caught a glimpse of yesterday is suddenly visible again. “I’m tired of being fucked over,” she says, her voice little more than a whisper. “I just want it to stop for a while. I want someone to believe in me.” 

She looks so small and defeated and vulnerable that a lump forms in his throat. He feels a sense of tenderness to her so deep that it almost hurts. “Come here,” he tells her. 

Nicola hesitates and then steps into his body, pressing her face into his chest. He puts his arms around her awkwardly. The demon of Downing Street doesn’t usually do hugs, especially for colleagues who have just come within a hair’s breadth of causing a national scandal. 

She returns the embrace, her hands clutching at the back of his jacket in something approximating desperation. He lets her stand like that, her breath coming in shaky gasps. With one hand he tentatively strokes her frizz of hair. It’s softer than he would have guessed. Eventually her grip loosens and he drops his arms so that she can step back. 

“Do yeh want to see somethin’ that’ll cheer you up?” he asks, holding up the folded newspaper he’s brought with him. 

Nicola shakes her head, backing away a few paces with an expression verging on panic. “No, I don’t want to see that.” 

“It’s okay,” he reassures her. “Trust me. Frankie and I were up all night sortin’ this out.” 

She looks at him uncertainly. Gently, he takes her elbow and leads her to the bench in the pergola. “Here,” he places the newspaper in her lap. “Just look at it.” 

Nicola looks at the front page. The headline is “ _Opposition in cash for questions shocker_.” She glances up with surprise and he grins at her. “Take a look inside.” 

She begins to turn the pages. The first eight are dominated by details of how shadow cabinet members have received cash and gifts in exchange for asking questions in the House. She looks at him incredulously. “How did you do this?” 

“I’ve got a fucktonne of shit in my filin’ cabinet ready to pull out at times like these,” he tells her. “Keep reading.” 

She turns over to a double page story: “ _Mannion of the people: MP downs champagne with fat cats while taxpayers fight recession_ ”. Several very unflattering photographs of Peter Mannion in swimwear illustrate a story about the four holidays that he has taken on the yachts and villas of wealthy industrialists in the last eighteen months. The article states that these holidays coincided with him asking questions at PMQs that were favourable to his hosts, but stops just short of accusing him outright of corruption. 

Nicola’s lips quirk a little. While he’s not sure she’s capable of hating anyone, she really doesn’t like Peter Mannion. “That’s not a very good photo, is it?” 

“He looks like a fatberg,” Malcolm agrees gleefully. 

“Am I in here at all?” she asks with growing disbelief, flipping through minor news stories about education policy, crime and the proposed third runway at Heathrow. 

“Page thirty three.” 

Nicola closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath before opening the paper at the relevant page. Her brow furrows in confusion at the picture of a heavily made up woman in her thirties. “ _Minister’s husband all round poor performer_.”

Malcolm’s lips curl into a grin as he watches her read. Frankie has played a blinder. In exchange for a few discrete promises, one of the escorts that James regularly books has agreed to give an interview describing how boorish and tedious he is. And to talk in some detail about his chronic impotence. “ _I feel sorry for his wife_ ,” Honey Waters says towards the end of the interview. “ _Sharing a bed with him must be like being pawed by a randy dog_.” 

Nicola’s hand flutters to her mouth as she emits something between a sob and a laugh. She looks up from the paper. 

“I told yeh it wasn’t as bad as you were expectin’,” he tells her, still grinning broadly. 

She shakes her head. “I don’t understand how you…how have you done this?” 

“I might be vampire, but I’m also the dog’s fuckin’ supersized bollocks at managin’ the press. All the other papers are runnin’ with the same stories,” he reassures her. “Except for Honey Waters - we gave the Express the exclusive on her.” 

She’s laughing and crying at the same time, wiping tears away with the sleeve of her coat. He gives her time, relieved that she’s actually smiling.

Eventually she calms down. She stares down at the paper for a long moment before asking “Why did you do it?”

He’s not sure he understands the question. “To kill the fuckin’ story. It’s my job.” 

Nicola shakes her head. “No. The cash for questions thing would have been enough to kill the story. But the Peter Mannion bit...and James…that’s-” she meets his eye. “You did it for me.” 

His skin prickles. More than anything he’d like to break eye contact and run away. But that wouldn’t be a very Malcolm Tucker thing to do. Instead he shrugs. “I thought yeh could do with cheering up.” 

And suddenly he realises it: he’s stopped seeing Nicola Murray as just another Cabinet Minister. Somewhere along the way he’s actually started to give a shit about her. The previous night he had worked like a man possessed, carrying out his plan with brutal efficiency and cold blooded satisfaction.  He had left the Murray house determined that Nicola would not be thrown to the wolves for something she’d had no control over. He had pulled in half the markers owed to him in Fleet Street to make sure that not only did she came out of this squeaky clean, but that James would be fucking humiliated in the process. And then he’d thrown in Mannion as a consolation prize.

It’s Nicola who breaks eye contact, her gaze skittering away. Her eye alights on the Honey Waters interview. “James is going to be furious.” She doesn’t sound entirely displeased at this prospect. “Actually, he did sound quite put out on the phone. I thought it was just because of work, but he’d probably already seen this…”

He has zero sympathy for James’ predicament. “If he didn’t want it gettin’ out, he should have kept his dick in his pants.” And it’s not like he hadn’t given the limp dicked toad plenty of warnings before he pulled the trigger.

“Is it true?” He can’t resist adding. “That he has trouble getting’ it up?”

Nicola looks up at him through her eyelashes, a bright red flush blooming up her neck. “Sometimes.”

Malcolm makes a token effort to suppress his smirk. “Aye, well cocaine will do that to yeh. Come on,” he tells Nicola, taking the paper from her. “Let’s get yeh back downstairs. You’ve got an entire government department to scare the livin’ shit out of. I’m goin’ to film it and become a fuckin’ YouTube millionaire.”

She smiles at him shyly. “I do quite enjoy watching Ollie squirm.”

“Tha’s my girl,” he chuckles.

His hand hovers at the small of her back as he guides her through the door, because it’s windy up on the roof and she’s wearing heels. The last thing he needs today is her falling down the stairs. 


End file.
